


Fever Dream

by daynight



Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 11:47:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3409451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daynight/pseuds/daynight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dreams, death and all the wicked and beautiful things you can find in between.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fever Dream

**Author's Note:**

> No disrespect intended at all to the real men, this is based entirely on fictional depictions from TV.

What to dream of now?

Certainly not of those yellowed green fields, cicada chirping summer nights, bike rides and gentle evenings. Creaking porches and screens and the antique smell of old books. No winding dust roads or white lace tablecloths. Your old childish pride. Not that. Put it out of your head, boy. There is no home for you, not for any of you. No home that extends any further than this stinking mud filled hole, sucking, sinking. You were born here, in the mulch and the maggots. You will die here, already dug into your grave.

Dreaming. It should be a luxury in these terrifying restless hours but dreams still come, relentless and cruel, even in the fragments of sleep you steal. Filthy devils. Screeching foreign tongues and blood circled flags. Grinning, eyeless heads. A smiling skull. His smiling lazy skull, jaunty as a jangle-bone corpse. An ever-present grim reaper, lurking on the periphery edge. The ferryman who beckons expectantly for you to pay your charge.  Oh god, you can see every detail of his skeleton under too thin sallow skin, every rib and ridge. Maybe he was never human at all.

Good. Good. Humanity is worthless here.

It is unfortunate that you can’t let go of it. The worst thing to be out here is someone who cares for the plight of others. It is a torture beyond bodily pain. Sympathy simply cannot be afforded. It will kill you.

Did you ever have pity for him? You don’t think so, he was too far gone for that long before you met in a khaki shadow, his hooded eyes tracking your movements, that mouth grinning. You think he might have pity for you, though, with the way he watches, the way he softens and tries kindness on for a while around you, although it is tattered and fits very badly. He is cruel, he is crazy, he is one fucked up son of a bitch but he likes you, you know it. He fits himself around you, huge pale crocodile eyes boring into you, invading your space, and exhaling his smoke right into your nostrils. He reserves his deadening sympathy for you whilst laughing into the abyss of the pacific.

You feel drawn to him. Your strange and dangerous companion. Your skeleton friend, a figment from his Mardi Gras parades, an enigmatic demon. You share your doomed foxhole together, shit , you’ve been through hell together, and you start to accept that you are going to die with him, together, surrounded by his cigarette butts and enemy corpses in this stinking hole. You don’t mind as much as you should.

Some nights you think he watches you as you sleep. In revenge, you watch him, watch that grinding jaw and those twitching eyelids and begin to wonder how fucked you are in the head because when did he cross over from revolting and frightening to strangely beautiful?

When his mouth bites into yours the first thought that slashes though your mind, incisor sharp, is ‘what the fuck are we doing?’ but that doesn’t sound very different from ‘what the fuck are we doing here?’ a question you ask yourself every day and still don’t have an answer to. So you let it go and surrender to this new violence, this at least you can control. This at least you want.

Eyes roll back.

Who knew a kiss could damn near knock you out? How could it be any other way with him? He kisses like he fires mortars. His fingers, mud and blood stained, are pricking your skin with every touch, every graze, even through your uniform. They rake through your red hair, pulling, hurting. He’s burning you. Hellfire. You feel so helpless, so pathetic in how much you desire this.

You’re shaking, knees knocking and fingers vibrating with longing, just holding on to your last threads of sanity. You scramble to grab him, keep him attached to you like a second skin, fisting the front of his uniform, desperate. He pushes you against the mud, forcing your mouth open and presses further into you, staking a claim. It’s like he’s wanted you for decades. Cigarettes, dirt and blood, he must have cut you with those sharp teeth. Your lips sting painfully, tears in the corners of your eyes. You want him to take all of you until there’s nothing left. He can swallow you whole for all you care. You know he will look after you.

He’s got hold of a fragile wrist and his grip is like a fucking vice. You bet there will be purple-pink bruises in the morning, a sign that this was real. It feels like a fever dream, you’re sweating, swearing _shitshitshit_ and he’s tracing his tongue down the side of your neck. He has to place a hand over your mouth to quiet the noises that you’re making crazy, wild sounds you can’t believe could come from you.

He whispers to you, that deep lazy drawl, telling you things that make your heart stop and your body writhe against his clamping arms. He calls you Sledge, Sledgehammer and, oh Jesus Christ, Gene and murmurs that he’s been thinking about fucking you since you walked into that tent a lifetime ago, so pale and shiny and pure. You can’t help but convulse, mouthing a litany of curses and prayers and pleas against his hand. _Oh Snafu, oh please, oh please._

He’s biting on your shoulder, his saliva soaking through material and mixing with the sweat of your skin. He might be drawing blood even, with the way it hurts. He’s sighing, breath heaving as he drags his hand down, cutting you with uneven nails, into your trousers. Your heart almost drums its way straight through your ribcage and into his open palm, just the way he wants.

His hands are warm, clammy, as they wrap around you. It’s like nothing you’ve ever felt, incomparable, shamefully heavenly. There’s no slow build up, he sets a punishing rhythm, almost painful, but maybe he’s just responding to how close to the edge you already were, just with his hands and the way he was saying your name. How near you are to plummeting into this paradise of madness. How much you need him to guide you there.

You almost cry when you come.

Slumping against him, worn and tear-streaked, you observe dozily as he frantically works himself over, watching you the way he always has. Huge hungry eyes, glazed with pleasure now. You’re so tired, floating and euphoric, but you try to make yourself move, conducting your unwilling body. You reach up and touch his mud-flecked hollow cheek, run your finger over his plump chapped lips, impossibly feeling heat coiling inside you again as he leans into your hand, eyes fluttering closed. Like he loves you. He gasps, _fuck_ , a ragged rasping breath, and finishes, your name on the tip of that evil tongue, spilling out like he didn’t mean to. He collapses against you and you hold him close, trying to show him how you feel without words, pressing your nose into his dark curls as he hides his face in your shoulder, xylophone ribs heaving.

For the first time in weeks, you smile.

**Author's Note:**

> yep…


End file.
